The RED Fort sat like a scar on the dusty skin of Teufort’s outskirts—half-factory, half-barracks, and all barely held together with rusted bolts, cigarette burns, and leftover bloodstains from skirmishes no one bothered to clean up.

Corrugated metal walls, sun-bleached and dented from decades of bullets and explosions, groaned under the weight of age and disrepair. Tall smokestacks coughed up lazy plumes of black smoke into the amber sky, a skyline broken by decaying power lines that buzzed with the persistent drone of desert insects. The ground was hard-packed dirt and gravel, speckled with old tire tracks, empty BONK! cans, cigarette butts, and the occasional suspiciously singed helmet.

Everything was dry, and hot. The air, the earth.

Inside, the chaos only deepened. The halls smelled like sweat, gun oil, and something vaguely burnt. Walls were lined with mismatched lockers plastered with faded pinups, weapon schematics, and sticky notes ranging from battle strategies to passive-aggressive reminders.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming like a mosquito in your ear, casting long shadows that twisted across the graffiti-covered concrete. The rec room was a disaster zone of card tables, bullet-riddled couches, half-eaten sandwiches, and at least one taxidermy creature no one dared touch. Rooms bled into one another, an infirmary that doubled as a storage closet, a war room that smelled suspiciously like someone grilled sausages in it, engineers little garage, up to Spy's hideaway where the walls are lined with books and a jazz record spins. And yet, for all its grime, grit, and organized anarchy, the RED Fort pulsed with life. A chaotic, loud, dangerous life. It was a war machine with a soul, stitched together by mercenaries who couldn’t live without the fight... or each other.